Gone Under
by CADay
Summary: Mycroft Holmes is forced to go undercover in a place he never wants to go. Will the Ice Man get thawed out or completely melt on this assignment? Rated T for future content. CADay's first fanfic.
1. Businessman Undercover

_"I know you dislike going undercover but the Queen has asked for you personally." The older man ran a hand through his greying hair, unappreciative of his role in all this. He feared and respected the hawklike man before him- but mostly feared. "Mr. Holmes, you of all people should understand and appreciate the significance of that." He swallowed hard. If anyone could deny the royal family of something and not suffer the consequences, it was Mycroft Holmes. But he didn't want to be the one to have to relay the news to the Queen that her request had been denied by the standoffish man before him. _

_Ignoring him, Mycroft twirled his umbrella absentmindedly. He knew he couldn't deny a request from the Queen herself. And the knowledge that she specifically requested him- well, he couldn't deny that it pleased him a bit. He felt that it befit his station to have such trust placed in him- not that it wasn't done every day. (After all, he almost singlehandedly ran the country on a daily basis, but he'd never admit to it.) It was simply pleasant to be more-or-less publicly appreciated for once. But he couldn't bring himself to savour the idea of going undercover once again. All that legwork, and the people he had to deal with- it left a bitter taste in his mouth. But he couldn't see a way out without dismissing the Queen's desires. _

_Sighing, he shifted his weight to his umbrella and looked down at the head of the Secret Intelligence Service. "Given the fact that I'm speaking to you rather than the official head of the Security Service, I assume I'm to be sent overseas." There, he had accepted without accepting. If it was too disagreeable, he could refuse without breaking any sort of verbal agreement. _

_He looked the man over again. He was tense, body held almost at attention. His eyes kept flitting over to the papers scattered about the table. 'The file.' He scanned what words he could see for anything identifying but there seemed to be nothing. 'Wait, gray- American spelling.' He looked closer and saw several other words spelt oddly. To the man before him, it would have seemed like a glance at himself then the file- nothing in-depth- but it was enough. "To America." He involuntarily made a face of distaste. He had been to America several times on business and found it left plenty to be desired. But he had never been undercover there. He felt assured that it would be much worse. How he loathed undercover work. _

_"Yes," the man replied shortly as he gathered the file, relief flooding his body. Mycroft watched his posture relax marginally and gave a rather cold smile. Fear was good; fear kept people working efficiently. And he could see that the man had plenty of fear for him. "Read this in its entirety on the flight. It'll explain your cover and what you're trying to find," the older man instructed as he handed over the Manila folder and hesitantly met the piercing blue eyes before him. "Good luck, sir."_

The aeroplane hit a bit of turbulence and jolted Mycroft Holmes out of his memories. He forced his gaze to return to the file on his lap and sighed heavily. He could have said no. Nothing would have changed. They simply would have sent an agent from MI6 to deal with the issues in America. But he felt it would be better to have this little favour to fall back on. And given the events of the past couple days, quite the favour it would be. Ever the businessman- Mycroft Holmes


	2. Cover Stories

_**Sorry that they're so short, but I think I'm getting the hang of this. I wanna hear your opinions though, so find the review button down below. ~Mycroft Rules~**_

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Papers were tossed carelessly away as Mycroft Holmes dismantled the file he had been given at MI6. Uncharacteristic as it was, his frustration was showing through at the tediousness of his task. Half of the file was the Incident Report, the contents of which he had been present for.

Flipping through the pages he was tossing aside, he saw snippets of the events of the past couple days. The anonymous message via computer. /-He had been the one to figure out how to trace it-/ The tip that the Queen was to be assassinated. /-He decided that it wasn't a hoax-/ The foiling of the attempt on the Queen's life. /-He... Actually, he couldn't take personal credit for that. He had simply sent a team-/ The tracking of the suspect after his escape. /-He did do the legwork on that but reluctantly-/ All of the events, he had been there to experience firsthand.

So, w_hy_ had the incompetent agent felt the need to include it? He shook his head and ran his hands through his normally tidy hair. The recap was unnecessary. He just needed to know what his "assignment" was. He continued to remove pages in a careless manner as he searched for facts he wasn't previously aware of. Like his cover story. When he read it, he felt his jaw slacken and gave an audible gasp. It couldn't be! They wouldn't dare!

Anthea heard his gasp from the opposite side of the plane and laid down her magazine. "Is everything all right, sir?" He forced his mouth into a tight line and waved her off, speechless for the first time in a long time. She returned to her magazine as he reread the page, his blue eyes widened in incredulity How could they do this to him? Why hadn't he read this beforehand? He laid the file on his lap and rubbed his hands roughly over his face. This was sure to be much worse than the Serbian undercover work. He groaned and slumped a little, aware that these dramatics were more befitting of his younger brother.

The groan piqued Anthea's curiosity. Once again she laid her magazine aside. "Sir?" she asked as she stood, "What's the matter?" It was rare for her boss to push aside his emotionless mask, so something in that file had to have really bothered him. She made her way over to him hoping to get a glimpse of the offending passage; instead though, the file was shoved into her face.

"Read for yourself." He sounded rather petulant, and she found herself being reminded of the lesser Holmes brother. She scanned the page until she hit the section about his cover story. It was rather long-winded but she got the basic gist and stifled a giggle.

"Well," she searched for more appropriate words than the ones that came to mind. "It certainly is a thorough cover." She stifled another giggle and handed the file back.

Mycroft skimmed over the next page and suppressed a satisfied smirk, finished with his own emotional outbursts. "Laugh if you wish, Anthea, but you're to go undercover with me." It was her turn to look shocked as she snatched the file away. If he had her in the capacity that the file suggested, it wouldn't be much different than their daily relationship, so why should she look so scandalized?

"I've been demoted!"

It was his turn to suppress a laugh. "Yes, well, as have I." He took the file away and waved her back to her seat. Another look was warranted now that he had calmed himself some. He reread the file and looked out the window beside him. This was, too say the very least, going to be interesting. He began running through all the possible scenarios and various outcomes for their time undercover. Very few of his possibilities didn't end badly.

Anthea seemed to be echoing his thoughts as she cleared her throat a good while later. "Sir," she began a bit self-consciously, "This isn't such a good idea. We're dealing with real lives- innocent, impressionable lives."

He sighed a little as he laid his head back against his seat. "Yes, I'm aware of that." He looked her over before picking up a certificate for his cover from the file. "But I agreed to do this. Now we must accept our roles as..." He checked the papers again. "...Principal Holmes and his secretary Mrs. Courbet."

Question time: Which Sherlock character would you like to have as your high school principal?

I think I've made my position clear. Leave yours in your review. :)

xxThanksxx C.A. Day


	3. Deductions

The flight lasted several more hours. That was several more hours of silence that Mycroft spent trying to condition himself for his assignment. Several hours for him to wonder how long it would be before he would be able to sit behind his desk at the Diogensis Club once again. The briefing in the file said it couldn't be expected to last more than a month, but he felt confident that it would take just within three months to resolve this matter. And he was rarely wrong.

It was a welcome sight when the airports lights became visible in the darkness below. The captain called over the intercom that they were beginning their descent, but it was unnecessary. Both passengers knew before he said anything. They strapped themselves in, and Mycroft put away the file. He was ready to get off this plane and arrive at whatever housing the American government had deigned to provide them. He waited inwardly impatient as the plane taxied down the runway; his cool exterior remained firmly in place though. No more emotional outbursts for 'the Ice Man'. What a silly nickname. Once upon a time, every man in Britain had been reserved and slightly distant, keeping all emotions within. It had been proper breeding, proper teaching at the boarding schools, and proper manners to do so. Now everyone was expected to more outward with their emotions, and it just didnt abide well with Mycroft. Emotions had their time and place, but most of the time they were improper.

Once the plane halted, the Mycroft and Anthea disembarked into the foriegn darkness and were met by a very unhappy-looking FBI agent. Mycroft couldn't help but think there was the perfect example of a modern man, his emotions plain on his face. But then again, what else could be expected? He was an American; they couldn't be held to the same standards. So when he began speaking, the British politician didn't find himself very surprised. "I'm Agent Thompson, and this is my case. They say y'all are good, but leave this to our 're better suited for thi-."

Mycroft raised a hand to silence the man right then. He didn't often cut people off, but he wasn't in the mood to be told that he was of no use after he had just flown thousands of miles for this case. He gave the man a quick scan with a critical eye, noting everything of import.

"I'm sure this is nothing personal; after all, we are technically foreigners here, and this should be your case," he began calmly. He wasn't feeling as calm as he sounded; he felt rather irritated at being dismissed so quickly. He was Mycroft Holmes; there was no one that dismissed him (other than Sherlock, of course). It was time to let this man know who he was dealing with. He forced a smile that was too cold and didn't quite reach his eyes. "You must be feeling rather irritated after working a double shift and then having to make the long drive to meet us when you would rather be home with your wife, teenage daughter, and sick son."

Mycroft had to turn away to hide his satisfied smirk as the man gaped openly at his words. Simple deductions, and yet the FBI agent was simply astounded. He had a terrible attitude for someone so blind. He caught Anthea's eye, only to have her turn back to her phone with a slight smile.

"H-how did you know that?"

Mycroft turned back to Agent Thompson and quirked his eyebrow. "How could I not see it?" he replied haughtily. He pointed to the man's legs. "Your trousers could only be creased like that after sitting in a car for a long period of time. There are very few chairs that can make creases lie that, and you seem to be more of a field operative. The bags under your eyes show you haven't slept in a day or two. I'm sure mine look almost identical. And while you could have been staying up to look after the sick child I mentioned, the dried food on your collar shows you haven't been home to change lately. Or around your wife, who would have undoubtedly pointed it out to you. I know you have a demanding job, which would explain the time away from home. How do I know you're married? Wedding ring, obviously. Teenage daughter: you smell faintly of two different scents of perfume, but of the same brand. Same brand indicates they were purchased by the same person, so it is unlikely it was anyone outside the family. Wife and daughter since most women tend to wear the same perfume unless it's a special occasion. Since you haven't been home, I assme they rode in your vehicle at some point in the last few days and the smell lingered. As for your sick son, he's most likely under five years of age. He has a cold or allergies. How do I know? You have dried snot on your trousers, just below waist level. I doubt you did that yourself, so it must have been a child. The height suggests a young child. Either he's under five or very small for his age, but I'm betting the former from your expression. He hugged you so he's either your child or one you know well. Your wedding band is old and you have a teenage daughter; it's easy to assume you have another child after so many years of union. Son or daughter- it was a fifty percent chance, and son sounded appropriate. Now will you let me do my job?"

Thompson seemed astounded by his quick explanation; given the chance, he'd comment on how obvious everything was once it was pointed out. Wasn't that the way of the world? But Mycroft wasn't going to give him the chance to get off on the tangent. He wanted this agent to learn his place and to learn it quickly. "This case was given to me by the Queen of England. She personally requested me to take it. And I was given the personal assurance of the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency that I would be given the full assistance of the FBI. I will not indulge in your petty jurisdiction squabble. I will be gracious for your assistance, but if you attempt to hinder my progress in any way, you will find yourself and your bureau on the wrong side of the British government." He didn't raise his voice once, nor did he leave the calm tones he started with. He knew it was infinitely more chilling to be threatened calmly, and it always seemed to make people more cooperative. High tempered threats usually seemed ridiculous and ill thought. He wanted the man before him to know just how serious and in control he was.

The man was clearly taken aback by his obvious threat. To be fair though, threat implied an inability to act. Mycroft could make him wish he had never taken a job at the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He could say that it was more of a promise. But Thompson seemed to understand his place as he inclined his head a bit. "I apologize. What'll you do first, Mr. Holmes?" The deference was clear in his voice, and a quick scan of his face revealed that he was sincere in his apologies. Good. Mycroft suppressed a smirk that he knew would be detrimental to this new agreement between their parties.

He cleared his throat and spoke politely but rather coldly, "I would like to go to the housing your government has so graciously provided for us. It's late, and we have been travelling for a while. The rest would be welcome."

The agent nodded and motioned toward his black Lincoln. "Of course. If y'all will put your luggage in the trunk, we'll be on our way." He took a couple bags and opened the trunk before placing them in. Mycroft assisted Anthea in putting the bags in to speed things along, and before they knew it, they were on their way. It was clear that Thompson was from the area by the way he pointed out locations that may be important later on.

"There's the firehouse. That's the post office. There's the bank. If you look over there, back off the road is the high school." And so on. It was dull and pointless, but Mycroft knew it was his way of trying to atone for his behaviour earlier. He watched the town out the window and felt rather put out when the city limits arrived in what felt like a matter of seconds. The city was tiny; it was more of a town. The city limits sign declared that there was only a few thousand residents. He let out a gentle sigh. This was going to be a long three months.

Finally they turned off the main road and went off onto a gravel road that eventually turned to dirt. And it was offical; they were in the back of beyond in America. Wonderful. Thompson helped them take their luggage in and gave them a number to call if they needed anything. And then he was gone.

Mycroft turned to Anthea with a slight frown. "Remind me again why I said yes to this."

She shrugged and picked up her bags. "You tell me," she said before giving him a small smile and going to the bedroom she picked.

He pulled out his mobile and noticed he had absolutely no signal. This just kept getting better.


	4. Always Successful

pre class="aLF-aPX-K0-aPE"-Two Weeks Later-

"Are you ready, sir?"

Mycroft sucked in a deep breath through his nose and nodded, releasing the air slowly. As ready as he would ever be. He knew there was nothing to be frightened of, that they were just teenagers, but he couldn't help worrying all the same. 'At least maybe it'll be over quickly,' Anthea had said at one point during their fortnight of preparations. He dealt with conniving politicians for a living, changed countries and their interrelations through nuances; everything that happened in the British government went through him. He was not to be intimidated by a bunch of hormone-crazed adolescents. He schooled his expression into one of polite but firm neutrality and turned to his PA.

"Yes. Shall we?" He held an arm out toward the door, allowing her to enter first. When he walked through that door, he was to address the entire school -students, staff, and all- for the first time as their new "principal". The school board hadn't even told the assistant principal that their new principal was actual a "British agent undercover", as the superintendent had so quaintly put it. Everything was being conducted with the utmost secrecy; it seemed even the egocentric Americans were able to understand the importance of finding their anonymous tipster.

That was something that Mycroft had thought long and hard on. He had narrowed his thoughts down to twelve different solutions, but now that he was in the school, he could only see four of them as viable options. One, the tipster was staff. Two, the tipster was a student. Three, the trackers had gotten it wrong. Or four, the school was just a red herring. Three was the most unlikely of the four, but he had to entertain the possibility. Four seemed to be the most likely. The other two were completely acceptable beliefs to have, but he had to ask 'how?'. How could a staff member of a high school in the backwoods of America have prior knowledge of an assassination attempt on the Queen of England? Better yet, how could a teenager? And why would they have sent the tip from a school computer? Well, actually he supposed that made some sense; better to have it traced back to the school where there is a large pool of suspects rather than back to your house, where there is a very limited number of suspects.

The door opened once more and Anthea poked her head in. "Sir? They're waiting." He sighed and nodded. He couldn't put it off any longer. He tugged at his waistcoat, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles and squared his shoulders. It was time. Taking in another deep breath, he walked into the gymnasium and up to the podium that had been set up for him.

Clearing his throat, he scanned the crowd before him, quickly sizing it up. Not too large. About seven hundred students and one hundred fifty staff members- those were numbers that wouldn't overwhelm him. Time to get into his cover. Hoping his accent was covered, he forced a smile and adjusted the microphone on the podium.

"Good morning, everyone. Welcome to another school year here at Clearwater High. Go Cottonmouths!" He gave a halfhearted fist pump before clearing his throat again. "My name is Greg Holmes" -they had agreed it was safer to use at least a partially false name- "You may address me as Principal Holmes though. I am sorry that Mr. Sloan was unable to rejoin you all this year. I will be supplying the school with temporary leadership until the school board hires another principal. I hope you all will afford me the same respect and courtesy you gave Mr. Sloan."

He looked over the crowd trying to pick out any distinct characters. What he saw was much like he expected. Several students were asleep while several others attempted to secretly use their mobiles. A great deal were talking amongst themselves, and only a handful were paying any sort of attention to him. Half of that handful were making sarcastic comments about him to whoever would listen. Mycroft could already pick out which students he would have issues with. And surprisingly he saw a few, a very slim few, that he felt had potential. As for his undercover case, he couldn't see anyone right away, but he hadn't expected to. There wasn't a chance it would be that easy. No, he'd have to do it the other way: subtle interrogation. It would take much longer, but at least it would be thorough. (126) (6.67)

He would check the technology classes first -students and staff. Whoever this tipster was, they were extremely good with technology. They had to be to hack into the Security Service's secure servers and leave the anonymous tip. Mycroft's professional pride had suffered a blow and would suffer an even greater one if it did turn out to be a student. He had personally overseen a great deal of the computer security updates.

That was why he squared his shoulders and smiled back out at all of them. He would find this security leak, interrogate them, and then rectify the situation. Adjusting the microphone a bit more, he added, "I hope you all enjoy your year. There are great events at work here." He took a step back and held an arm out to Anthea. She looked strange without her Blackberry, but its absence didn't detract from her abilities as his PA-secretary. Stepping around him, she took her place at the microphone and explained who she was and what lay in store for the school year.

Mycroft tuned her out and returned his gaze back to the mob of students. Why was he focusing in on them? It would be easier to try to clear the staff first before tackling the large number of adolescents. And if he was being completely honest with himself -the only person he could ever be wholly honest with- then he was a bit nervous about dealing with them. He didn't have much experience with children -or adolescents- nor did he desire to have much. Sherlock behaved enough like a child to suit Mycroft. The average teenagers would be much more difficult. But that was his task, and he would succeed as he always did.

He caught the eye of a student smuggling a pack of cigarettes and motioned for him to come down the bleachers.

He always succeeded. /pre 


	5. Cigarettes and Video Conferences

_**Hey if there's anything you all want to see in this fic, then leave it in a review and I'll see what I can do. Sorry this one is so long.**_

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Mycroft slid the confiscated pack of cigarettes back into the inner chest pocket of his jacket. A satisfied sigh escaped him as he took the first drag off of the fag. God, it was good. He could feel the nicotine from the first draw. How he needed it. Pity smoking around the school wasn't allowed. He could have used one hours earlier. Maybe he should get some patches while on this. He paused for a moment, his hand closing around the batteries he had been bouncing in his hand.

He was going to need patches. When was the last time he had used patches? He completely quit with nicotine. Or at least he had, until this case. That school- he shook his head. It wasn't just the school that was frustrating him. It was the lack of clues, his lack of progress, and the fact that he had back-to-back video conferences scheduled tonight when all he wanted to do was sleep. But life goes on, even when he isn't at his desk. And as for the school, he couldn't be expected to solve the case on the first day, as nice as that would be.

Resigning himself to the fact it was going to be a long night, he finished his cigarette and crushed it out in the ashtray. Time to put the batteries back in the smoke detector. He paused again before slipping them into his pocket. He'd need another cigarette, and it would quickly become tedious to remove and replace those batteries each time. In his pocket they would stay. He would sense a fire as fast as the small machine would.

He pulled out his pocket watch, giving the face a cursory glance. It was nearly time for the first conference. Replacing the silver watch, he sauntered over to the large mirror on his dresser. His eyes had bags under them. When had he last slept? He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. It was time to regain his composure. These conferences were important, and he must not allow the strain of fieldwork to show, certainly not during this first conference. He straightened his waistcoat and jacket before tilting his chin upward. Yes, he looked like he had had a sleepless night before, but he still had an air about him. His was a cool, collected aura of power, and he knew that he must let his demeanor project it even when he was thousands of miles away.

"Sir?"

Mycroft let his piercing eyes find Anthea's in the mirror and raised his eyebrows. She glanced back at her Blackberry before meeting his inquiring gaze again.

"Video conference with the head of the Secret Intelligence Service in five minutes."

He nodded, well aware, and she bowed out. With his composure set, he sat down on the bed and booted up his laptop, awaiting the Skype call. He was used to holding these sort of conferences when he was out of the country on business, though usually he did it from an office rather than a bed. Hopefully the other participants would be willing to overlook that.

The first call was coming through. Hopefully this would be short. Mycroft quickly accepted and adjusted the webcam.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes. How's America treating you?"

"As well as can be expected," he replied shortly, hoping to get the pleasantries out of the way. The other man seemed aware of that. He ran a hand through his greying hair and sighed heavily.

"Any progress?"

Mycroft fought to keep his calm exterior. This was technically his first day undercover. How could he be expected to solve the entire case in a matter of hours? That was a difficult feat, even for a Holmes. "No, not yet. It will take some time." The agent seemed to hear the snappish undertone. He glanced at his wristwatch, appearing slightly uncomfortable.

"Well, I won't keep you any longer. Good luck on your assignment." With that he closed the chat, leaving Mycroft rather thankful.

He glanced at the time. He had almost twenty minutes until his next call; he could fix himself a quick glass of tea. Or he could have Anthea do it. No, he would rather do it himself. He made his way to the kitchen and sought out the caffeinated beverage, only to be disappointed. Lipton Instant Tea... It didn't even sound slightly appealing. Maybe he could use Anthea after all.

Her room was on the opposite side of the small house from his, but it was next to the kitchen. He simply stepped into the living room and took the couple of steps to her door before rapping gently. She appeared almost instantaneously, looking a bit surprised.

"Sir?"

He cleared his throat. "Would you care to see if any shops are still open? I need a higher quality tea, and I've heard that the sweet tea in this area is wonderful."

She blinked and glanced at her ever present Blackberry. "It is rather late, but of course I'll check. Is there anything you would prefer if I'm unable to find your tea?"

He considered this for a moment. "Something quality if you can, if not, mainly something caffeinated." She nodded and went back into her room. Mycroft wandered back to his room and heard the front door close a few moments later. He smiles appreciatively. Not many people would work all hours for their boss. Or go undercover with them. Though he supposed she was paid enough to do so, but still, it made things much easier. She made things much easier. He reminded himself to thank her when this was all over.

He checked the time again. There was still almost fifteen minutes before the call would come through. He supposed he could try to initiate the call early, but he doubted the Prime Minister would appreciate it. His hand dragged wearily across his eyes. He was getting tired. Maybe another cigarette would help. There were only a couple more in the pack though. Sighing, he whipped out his phone.

22:42  
[Could you also get me another pack of cigarettes? And a box of nicotine patches if you can find them.]

He laid the phone aside and pulled the pack out again. They weren't particularly good cigarettes; they were cheap and rather weak. Unfortunately, he wasn't well versed in American cigarettes. He had mostly quit smoking during his business trips, so the pack or two he had brought had lasted him. He shook his head. It was a weakness, an addiction, but he couldn't seem to break it completely. And he had to agree with his brother; it wasn't the worst addiction to have.

His phone vibrated on the pillow. The contact simply read 'A' for security reasons. He opened the text.

22:43  
{Any certain kind?}

He checked his pack before placing the cigarette back in his mouth to free both hands.

22:43  
[Not Riverside. Beyond that, I will leave that to your discretion.]

He looked at the time and tossed it aside again. Exactly fifteen minutes. If he wasn't so reserved, he would have yelled and thrown something. He needed caffeine or sleep. And these conference calls were so tedious. He wished the call would start early.

Just as the thought crossed his mind again, the laptop pinged. Another call was coming through. He let his face go blank as he answered it.

The Prime Minister's PA filled his screen. "Mr. Holmes, I'm sorry to inform you that the Prime Minister will have to reschedule your conference. He is at home ill. I do apologize."

Mycroft bowed his head understandingly. "Of course. Please give him my best wishes." The woman nodded, looking rather haggard, and terminated the call. It was late in London, almost a quarter to three in the morning. No wonder that was such a short call. He would probably be getting a call from the man himself in a day or so. That was fine by him. Now he could sleep. If there wasn't a notification of a missed call.

He sighed and wondered who else could possibly want to Skype him at this hour. Or that hour back home. He tried to call back and was shocked to see the lined face that was Detective Inspector Lestrade. He regained his composure and nodded politely.

"Hello, Detective Inspector. What has my brother done now?"

The older man pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He looked haggard as well. Long hours, everyone worked them it seemed.

"He charged onto another officer's crime scene and refused to leave. And now the bloody idiot is in lockup, and they're talking about charging him. I've tried to get him out of it, but this officer... Well, we've had a row or two." Meaning things had gotten physical between them. Mycroft repressed a smile; Lestrade could have quite the temper. He had seen the officer direct that temper at Sherlock more than once. It was rather amusing, in a petty sibling rivalry way.

"Leave him. He'll be fine overnight. I'm unable to see to this in person, but I'll have someone collect him at some point tomorrow." -if I remember, he thought- "Thank you for calling me and trying to curb his childishness. Please forgive him for any trouble this has caused."

Lestrade waved his hand dismissively. He probably enjoyed seeing Sherlock in lockup as well. It was usually amusing to see him sulk in a cell, and Mycroft knew how much the other man enjoyed opportunities to get embarrassing photos of the younger Holmes brother.

"It's late, Detective Inspector. Go home. Get some rest." Mycroft said in a tone that implied it was less than a suggestion.

"Greg," Lestrade reminded before sighing again. "I could use some sleep. Just like you could. You Holmes men. You act like a decent night's sleep would kill you."

Mycroft allowed a slight chuckle at that. "Good night, Gregory," he replied before terminating the call himself. If he didn't, they'd do a back-and-forth for God knows how long, each trying to have the last word.

He regarded the strange relationship he had with the Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard. He considered him to be more than an acquaintance; he was what Mycroft considered to be one of his few friends. Lestrade had been the one who had gotten Sherlock to clean up his act. He was the one who had looked after Sherlock during his danger nights. He was the one that had kept Sherlock's mind occupied until John arrived. He was a good, honest man, and a good officer. He kept Mycroft updated on Sherlock's life in a way Mycroft's surveillance was unable to, and he seemed to really care for the younger Holmes. It wasn't often they met someone like Gregory Lestrade. He was grateful for the older man, that was certain.

And now that he was thinking about his brother, he couldn't help but be irritated. Sherlock knew he was out of the country, so he simply ha to get himself into trouble. Out of spite no doubt. Well, Mycroft would see how well the petulant detective enjoyed gaol until he got around to sending someone to fetch him.

He was alerted to Anthea's return by the front door closing again. Good cigarettes and hopefully good tea. He breathed a happy sigh through his nose. He returned to the kitchen to see if her venture out had been successful. She heard him coming and was ready with a glass of tea- refrigerated tea, but tea nonetheless. He could tell by the smell that it was of good quality.

"That is the local sweet tea, and I also took the liberty of picking up some coffee beans" She began unloading the bag onto the island. "Here's also your patches, cigarettes, and one of these water vapor cigars- for when you're in school and the patches just aren't working." Somehow she understood that sometimes he needed the actions as much as the nicotine. He meant to thank her, but his eyes locked onto a six pack of green glass bottles.

"Alcohol?" he asked before looking closer. No, the carton clearly declared 'soft drink'. "Ale-8 1: A Late One" the bottle read. It was enough to make him curious. He took a bottle from the carton and the proffered bottle opener from Anthea. The lid came off easily and a hiss escaped the bottle. He sniffed the beverage before taking a drink and found both to be pleasant.

"It's a local drink. The cashier says you'll only find them in state," she said as she put the rest into the refrigerator along with the rest of the tea. Mycroft took another drink and made a mental note to take pack some Ale-8's when they were to return home.

Taking the bottle back to his room, he changed into his pyjamas and laid down.

It had been a long first day.


	6. Hell Disguised

pre class="aLF-aPX-K0-aPE"The second day wasn't much shorter.

The morning started well enough. Mycroft woke up naturally with the rising sun. He was able to turn the alarm off before it made that irksome noise. He had his favorite three piece suit to wear. Anthea had breakfast ready by the time he was showered and dressed. It was a quiet morning. Soft sunlight filtered into the dining room, and birds chirped cheerily outside. Mycroft felt at peace. It was almost picturesque. He should have known it couldn't last.

-Approximately 2 Hours Later-

Mycroft let his eyes scan the cafeteria, taking in all the students. For the most part, he could already tell who his suspects were and who he could clearly dismiss. He couldn't claim, in good conscience, say that he knew who every student was and where they are coming from, like the real principal could, but that wasn't his responsibility. His cover was a temporary principal; he didn't have to know the students. Of course, he could pass a student in the hall and deduct most things about them. That was close to the same thing, though, he thought.

He let his eyes settle on a girl eating a table near him. Her blue backpack had stains from sitting on the ground: used in previous years. Her t-shirt was black and a bit too large: self-conscious. Her headphones were in and she wasn't paying attention to anything beyond her breakfast. The music was loud and angry. 'Unpleasant morning,' he thought. She had something written on her right hand: left handed. There had been writing on the left hand as well, but it was rubbed raw with faded ink still showing: someone hadn't liked what was on her hand. Deduction: she was from a middle class family with occasional monetary issues. She lived with her mother, who was overbearing and clashed with her constantly. Probably about ideology. It was easy to see who they were.

He looked for another one. His pale eyes fell on two boys having a heated discussion. No, there was no way of disguising it; it was an argument. Unconsciously, he began to make his way over as he scanned the scene. One boy was larger than the other, a dark headed older boy. A senior, and a football player. The towheaded boy was of a slight build and obviously younger. A freshman. There was a girl between them whispering furiously, glancing up at Mycroft and back at the boys. Her chair was pushed back to keep her out of the boys' way as they moved closer to one another. It was going to come to blows any second, and Mycroft knew it. The girl was towheaded as well, and obviously related to the freshman, if her nose had anything to tell. The senior had to be her boyfriend by the way he possessively laid his hand on her knee. A fight over a girl, how adolescent. Mycroft sighed and reached the table just as the boys stood. The senior grabbed the front of the freshman's shirt and punched his square in the nose. The girl screamed and the other boy's hands flew up to his nose to staunch the bleeding. The senior went to punch him again, but Mycroft took hold of his wrist.

He huffed a sigh through his nose. This could get tiresome very, very quickly. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked, sounding bored. This boy glanced back at him with big brown eyes, obviously expecting preferential treatment. Poor boy, he didn't seem to realize he was a temporary principal; he was supposedly only here to enforce rules and control the chaos.

"This -freshman- was running his mouth." He spat the word at the freshman in question. Mycroft shook his head and ran through the school handbook in his head for the appropriate punishment. He didn't dare let go of the boy's wrist. He was holding himself stiffly, and if Mycroft had let go, he would have launched himself at the younger boy.

The freshman had dug through his brand new backpack for a tissue. From what Mycroft could tell, the brand was expensive. 'Wonderful,' he thought, 'Just what I need: the wrath of "influential" parents because their child was injured by another.' He rubbed his hand wearily over his eyes. How had the morning gone downhill so fast?

He pointed to the girl. "Guidance counselor's office. Now." He turned his gaze to the bleeding boy. "My office." And he gripped the other boy's shoulder to hold him in place. He could tell it was taking all of the senior's self-control not to leap over the table at the freshman. Why did they behave like a bunch of savages? He could not begin to fathom what drove them to these lengths so quickly. It was like they had absolutely no impulse control, no long term reasoning. Actually, they didn't have the latter; that part of their brains was still developing, but that didn't mean they could take leave from their senses.

Once the towheaded siblings were cleared, Mycroft escorted the senior to the detention room. "You are to remain here until your parents arrive. At that time, Mr. Lyons will escort you to my office, and we will discuss your punishment." He glanced over at the nodding detention supervisor. -gambler, well off, only child, married, teacher wife, musician, small house dog, allergic to peanuts-  
He turned and left. This school was going to be the death of him. It was a prison where the warden suffered as much as the inmates. It was Hell disguised as a institute of learning.

He returned to his office and put on another nicotine patch. He would have to use the vapor cigarette if these situations persisted. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he scanned over the boy sitting across the desk from him. Yes, this boy obviously had influential parents. He didn't seem the least bit uncomfortable in the principal's office: frequently in trouble. Yet, he wasn't on the list of troublemakers that the middle school had sent over for the incoming freshmen: well liked. He also seemed completely unimpressed by Mycroft's authority, a personality trait of the well to-do. There would be hell to pay once his parents arrived.

Mycroft sighed softly and went to the door that connected his office to the main office. "Anthea, call both sets of parents, please." She nodded and picked up the phone, and he went back to his desk. He needed their disciplinary records.

"Well?" he prompted.

The freshman pressed the tissue to his nose and tipped his head back. "Ah gawb, dis huts," he groaned as he pinched it. Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes. The children acted like, well, children. At the times, they made his brother seem almost mature. It was terrible.

"Of course it hurts, Johnson," the man said as he dug through his files, "You have a broken nose." He hadn't seem the boy without the tissue yet, but he felt quite sound in his belief that the older boy had broken the freshman's nose. The blow had been perfect for it.

Mycroft found the files, and they lapsed back into silence. The younger boy rarely was reprimanded, but the senior had quite the record due to his temper. He would find himself in prison for domestic abuse in under four years, the man believed (and he was rarely wrong). He continued through the files, weighing the punishments for the three.

A while later there was a soft knock. "Sir?" Anthea poked her head in. "The parents are here."

He squared his shoulders as he nodded. "Ah yes, send them in, and let Mr. Lyons know that we're ready."

The day was only beginning, and it could only get worse. /pre 


	7. Reminders

**Oh my god, I am so sorry. I never meant to leave this story for so long. I got side tracked with other stories and school and life. Please don't hate me. Actually, I don't believe any of you do, since I have no reviews saying so. Even if it's to complain about my tardiness, leave a review. They make the word go round.**

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Almost all parents are blind. They cannot for the life of them see their children's flaws. It is almost biological fact. Mycroft knew this. He had known it most of his life. His parents were the perfect example. His mother had insisted that none of the fights growing up had been Sherlock's fault; the other boys had started it. His father was part of that "almost" group. He saw the fights for what they were, and what they were was occasionally Sherlock's fault. Just as Mummy was always clueless that the other boys getting into fights with older boys or having small accidents afterwards were Mycroft's doing, and Father always knew. Mycroft knew most parents refused to see their children's flaws though; he knew it well. But the stupidity of these four adults had simply stunned him.

He steepled his fingers on his desk and laid his head against them. Two hours with those horrid parents, each set proclaiming their son's innocence in the matter. It didn't matter that he, Principal Holmes, had seen it with his own eyes. The freshman was defending his sister's honor (what an archaic notion and inappropriate for that girl, he could already tell), and the senior was simply expressing his position as the girl's boyfriend when her brother overreacted. Mycroft sighed heavily. This is Hell, he thought for the umpteenth time in the last hour alone. He wasn't sure he would be able to take three months of it. He needed to close this case quickly. But most of all in that moment, he needed a cigarette. Not just nicotine. The entire action of smoking.

He pressed the buzzer for Anthea and she brought him the vapor cigar, knowing exactly what he needed as usual. He nodded gratefully as he took it and turned it on, a satisfied sigh escaping at the first puff. His eyes met Anthea's as he leaned back a bit in his chair.

"They're all hormones. Every last one of them," he said, shaking his head. Every fight, argument, harsh word seemed to stem from their hormones. "Everything here is just sex and angst," he added, acknowledging that not everything was due to sex. To himself he said, "I barely made it through the first time. I can't believe I ever agreed to come back."

Anthea hid a smile behind her hand. "Of course, sir. That's part of being an adolescent, as well as lacking a fully developed brain." With that, she excused herself to resume her post in the front office. He sighed and slumped into his chair, gratefully sucking vapor from the little device. He needed to relax, to just sit back and destress. He just needed to- Mycroft's eyes slipped closed and his breathing evened out. 'Calm. In and out,' he thought as he sank further into the plush desk chair.

Slowly he began his major relaxation technique. He tensed his toes for a moment and released them, follows by his entire foot, then calf. He continued the process all the way up his body, getting to his face when he was interrupted by a buzzing noise. He had been so close, but he was feeling much better than he had been. That was probably the best relaxation technique he knew. He was immensely grateful to his father for teaching it to him at a young age.

Sighing, he stood and shook his muscles out a bit. Now to just find the source of the noise. It sounded as though it was coming from behind him. After pushing in his chair, he found his mobile on the floor behind his desk. It must have fallen out of his trousers at some point. It was on vibrate and was lit up, "GL" listed on the caller idea.

Mycroft hastened to pick up the phone and answer, his heart rate quickening. "He hasn't caused any extra trouble, has he?" he asked by way of greetings.

He could almost hear the older man's smile on the other end. "You forgot, didn't you?" Lestrade accused lightly.

The politician huffed. "I apologize, Gregory. Things have been- hectic as of late. It will not happen again." And he meant that. This assignment was causing him to slip. He wasn't working as hard as he should be; in his arrogance, he had decided this would be a simple task. He needed to redouble his efforts and push forward.

But first, Sherlock must be dealt with. Mycroft knew he would forget again, and that couldn't be allowed to happen. It was bad enough that he forgot once. He needed to place the call straightaway.

"I am making the call from my other line. Please hold on." He didn't wait for the inspector's reply, knowing the man would hold for as long as necessary. His mobile was laid aside as he grabbed the phone on his desk. One pale finger quickly dialed a number overseas. The phone clicked as it was picked up, and he began speaking immediately.

"Go to New Scotland Yard. Pick up my infantile brother and give my humblest apologize to whomever requires it."

A low voice on the other end gave a simple "Yes, sir," before hanging up. Mycroft sighed heavily and returned to his mobile.

"Sincerest apologies. Someone will be along to collect him shortly," he said crisply, knowing Lestrade was still there.

The Detective Inspector chuckled softly. "Myc, he's been fine. Don't worry about it. No one has killed him yet."

Myc. Mycroft found that slightly endearing and less embarrassing than usual. But he was still a grown man. "Mycroft," he reminded gently, "I do detest pet names." Sighing slightly, he leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk. "I truly appreciate what you do for him, Gregory."

Silence on the other end of the line. But there was a softness in the Detective Inspector's voice when he finally spoke again. "He doesn't like to admit it, but he needs people. Even us ordinary people." There was an inflexion in his tone that gave Mycroft pause for a moment. Lestrade used that split second though to change tones. "So, rough day, eh?"

Mycroft found himself longing to tell the inspector everything, but just as he opened his mouth, the fire alarm went off. "I am truly sorry, Gregory, but I must go," he said smoothly, barely having to raise his voice over the alarms. He heard the older man begin in a questioning tone, but he ended the call anyway. He had duties to attend to.


End file.
